Revolutions
by goneroeg
Summary: Post-war problems are none too few. Hermione digs into her demons, and Fleur tries to help.


Hi! First story here, not sure where it's gonna go or if I'll leave it as a one-shot, so any suggestions are welcome. Please excuse any French errors - as my professors like to remind me, grammatical details are my downfall. Thanks for reading!

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December 31, 1998

The winter of 1998 was an impatient one for the wizarding world. Most were looking forward to putting the past 12 months in their rightful place in history, ready to bury the hatchet that had again revealed itself during the Battle of Hogwarts, where every witch and wizard knew someone caught in one of the most incredible and unfortunate incidents in modern magical times. A somber though triumphant year had taken its toll on both English and foreign, all of whom were ready to start 1999 with their heads held high, ready to rebuild their community – so unlike the winter festivities of the past year when Voldemort's victory seemed inevitable.

As usual, the Burrow was at the center of the holiday season. Molly Weasley had spent the weeks leading up to late December perfecting her decorating charms, and the proof lay in the immaculate garlands encasing the windows, a truly picturesque Christmas tree, and a spruce wreath at the front of the house displaying enchanted candles perpetually alighting the doorway. Celestina Warbeck's rendition of Auld Lang Syne floated through the lower level, mingling with the low hum of conversation and the occasional fork clinking against a plate.

Everyone had done their best to make it home for the holidays this year, even Percy had shown up in a sign of post-war solidarity and, if he were to be honest, a touch of guilt that he'd gone years without speaking to Fred before they'd met for the last time in early May. Now felt the need to reestablish a thread between himself and his family. He and George had found an old set of wizard chess and were engaged in a match punctuated by the younger's typically cheeky remarks whenever he managed to outmaneuver his insufferably pretentious brother.

Ginny, Ron and their respective partners, who really were already honorary members of the Weasley clan, sat quietly in worn armchairs absorbing the calming effects of a crackling fire on a cold night. Harry had gone to refill their mugs with butterbeer, and Hermione was entering her 20th attempt this week to explain the muggle belief in and obsession with Santa Claus.

"Whadya mean he's a muggle though, no one could visit every house in the world in 12 hours without some sort of magic!" Ron protested, thoroughly failing to grasp the more mythical elements of this particular Christmas fundamental.

Hermione shook her head. "Nevermind it then. We'll wait until next year so you can see for yourself what all the fuss is about." She and Ginny shared a glance of affectionate exasperation for the boy.

Harry returned from the kitchen with Fleur in tow to help with the extra sweets and drinks to be deposited in front of the fire, just as Bill and Charlie came crashing through the front door, covered head to toe in snow they'd been flinging at one another with their wands. Molly's motherly sixth sense for potential mess had her racing around the corner urging her sons to shed their damp clothes.

"Really boys, I'd thought at least my eldest would have grown out of this by now!" Blankets were quickly thrown in their direction, and just squeezing through the door was a similarly snow drenched Arthur, trying to avoid his wife's sightline and subsequent fury.

"And you!" Too late. Molly whipped her hand around to point at Mr. Weasley, whose surprised and fearful face caused her to drop all pretenses and simply say, "You all had better get warm, it's only twenty minutes til midnight now. Come. The fire's on."

Fleur and Bill lingered at the door for a moment, sharing a small kiss before they joined the others. For a few moments, the Burrow was positively serene, harkening back to joyful memories of warmth and meals with the whole family gathered round the kitchen table.

But no one was really the same as they had been this time last year. Peacefulness had developed a paradoxical quality; basking in the quiet no longer existed, instead the quiet forced everyone into their own heads, into the thoughts of death and violence that had plagued them, which would continue to plague them until such feelings were fully grappled with and torn to shreds. Few of them had even started such a process.

Personal darkness was always held just at bay, and too often managed to escape its mental restraints.

Hermione hadn't quite heard the origins of the commotion that caused Ron to upend her from the chair they were sharing, but suddenly he and George were up in arms backing Percy into the wall.

"How dare –"

"You stood there and watched him die! And now you have the nerve – "

"P-please I hadn't meant for it t-to come out – "

"My twin, Perce! Your brother! If there's anyone in this family to be called that – you were the one who ran away, ate at the feet of the ministry while they supported those murderers, his murderers!"

Ron threw a curse that landed over Percy's shoulder, shattering the window and reintroducing a frigid breeze to the room.

"Ron, please!" Hermione gripped his arm but Ron was determined to continue his assault.

"Don't touch me!" He shouted, and as he reached to throw her hand off, he grabbed hold of her arm along a meandering, enchanted scar Bellatrix had left her with.

Hermione cried out in pain and dropped to her knees, practically convulsing, prompting the yet uninvolved observers to turn angrily towards Ron, some raising their wands in anticipation. Molly simply looked horrified at her youngest son, Harry had taken a step forward while Ginny knelt next to her friend, and Fleur's eyes flashed a volcanic red, Veela feathers threatening to emerge along her neck and arms.

"Everyone, please, wands down, calm down." Arthur pleaded. Tension still stood thick amongst the group, stares lingered on Ron until the boy couldn't take it.

"Hermione… it was an accident. An accident!" No one in the room looked entirely convinced that Ron had apologized sufficiently. He threw his hands up, "Oh honestly, I didn't mean it, are you alright?"

But the Golden Trio's only female member remained on the floor, twitching slightly and trying to keep flashbacks of Malfoy Manor out of her mind.

"Here, let's go on outside, Ron, take a minute," Harry tried to reason with his friend. An already edgy Ron was having none of it, and the unspoken accusations of everyone in the room touched his last nerve.

"Forget it," he snarled, and with one last glare in Percy's direction he disappeared with a pop.

Silence.

Percy and George remained facing each other stiffly, but had abandoned their argument. After a few moments, Ginny had managed to get a shaky Hermione to her feet, and Molly hustled to their side.

"Come love, upstairs now. There you go, slowly, you'll be alright."

Fleur watched as Hermione disappeared up the staircase, and quickly set about boiling water for tea to soothe the girl.

The remaining men looked around aimlessly until Arthur broke the tension.

"Well. Just a few ticks to midnight. I've managed to wrangle some muggle fireworks from the ministry; they're in the shed… George, Charlie, Bill, help me out would you? Let's see if we can give these things a go."

"They'd better not blow my other ear off, there's only so much abuse an head can take." George joked, trying to lighten the mood as he shrugged his coat on and shuffled out the door with Bill. Arthur stood in the entryway looking apologetically between Fleur and Percy before disappearing into the cold.

Percy shrank back into his chair and quietly packed up the abandoned game of wizard chess. The wind continued to howl through the broken glass, and Fleur grabbed her wand, swished it and said firmly, "_Fenestra reparo_." The shards along the floor zipped back into place.

The kettle began to whistle, and Fleur assembled an arrangement of her macarons along with chamomile tea and two cups. She picked up the tray, gave one last glance at Percy to make sure he wasn't quite suicidal, and floated up the stairs towards Ginny's room.

Mrs. Weasley passed Fleur on her way back down and gave her a gracious hand on the shoulder as she descended; clearly troubled by all that had transpired between both the children she had birthed herself and her adopted family.

Hushed conversation drifted into Fleur's ears as she approached. She knocked softly at the door, trying delicately not to upset the hot water. Ginny sprang up to help her, and as the door opened Fleur caught sight of Hermione tucked tightly into a ball, staring out the window at the boys trying to figure out the intricacies of setting up fireworks in a foot of snow. She heard the door swing open and peeked over her shoulder, managing a small smile.

"Thank you, Fleur. I'm fine, really, both of you go enjoy the New Year, there can't be much time til midnight." Neither Ginny nor Fleur were convinced by Hermione's prodding.

"I shall stay with you, I think. It is far too cold for me out there, and this tea would be better enjoyed with company." Fleur was definite in her response. She wasn't going to budge an inch, and was much more interested in watching over the melancholy witch than anything else. "Ginny?"

"We shouldn't overwhelm her. I'll let you sit. Hermione, I'll be back, alright?" Hermione uncurled herself enough to accept a hug and said a brief thank you to Ginny for her kindness.

"Don't thank me, I'm sorry my brother is a moron." She smiled down at Hermione then exchanged a protective glance with Fleur, conveying her expectations that the French witch do absolutely nothing to disturb her friend in the slightest.

The bed creaked as Hermione rolled over, turning her back to Fleur. Although her hesitance to engage Fleur wasn't unexpected, the older woman felt a pang of sorrow to see Hermione in such a state. Certainly this wasn't the first time in his life that Ron had let his temper get the best of him, and she hoped that it was the first and last that he would touch Hermione like he had. Fleur tried to calm her inner Veela as her face and eyes burned simply at the memory of Hermione collapsing.

Similarly, Hermione struggled between keeping her eyes open, and keeping them shut. Each revealed different horrors. Shut, and she was back at Malfoy Manor, listening to Bellatrix laugh as she cursed Hermione until the girl retched from the pain, eyes watering and straining to stay awake, to stay alive. Open, and she lived the horror of a reality she'd never anticipated. After the war, everything was supposed to be fixed and no one had to live in fear. Instead, everyone lived with the perpetual feeling that war was always one step away, lurking just behind. The task now was not how to avoid people who wanted to kill you, it was how to avoid wanting to end it all yourself.

But they had lived in peace for a bit after Voldemort's ultimate demise. The wizarding world was aglow, celebrating with The Boy Who Lived and his brave companions. Soon, however, the high faded, and the warriors were left with nothing but aimlessness and too much time to reflect and remember the atrocities they'd suppressed. For too many, their memories of Hogwarts would now forever be bloodstained and cold, rather unlike the intended fond recollections of a carefree youth.

Hermione watched Mr. Weasley accidentally launch a firework straight towards Charlie, who dove into a snowbank before it could explode into his stomach. She couldn't help but let a chuckle escape, and Fleur's head lifted in surprised relief.

"Perhaps you might like some tea now? Or cakes, if you are hungry?" Fleur's suggestion was overly delicate, not wanting to ruin any progress in mood that had been made. And Hermione was feeling peckish at this point…

She sat up and wiped her eyes, just in case. Something about the older woman's presence had calmed her, and she was not ready to resist. "Both, please." She managed to give a pleased Fleur a small smile. The cakes would do her well. Even after the holiday season she remained too thin, with cheeks and hips that sliced instead of curved. The emotional and physical toll of hiking across England, avoiding and at times, not avoiding, Death Eaters was evident in Hermione's still slight frame. Fleur perched on the end of the bed with her cup and passed Hermione the macarons and tea.

They sat there for a few long moments, alternately plucking at their tea bags and shifting their eyes from one cobwebbed corner to another. Fleur cut the silence.

"Please forgive me if I am overstepping our… friendship," she hesitated, "I think you would prefer to speak with Ginny about this; though, Ron is her brother. You are so bright and of course forte, résiliente." Fleur blinked, maneuvered so her entire body was facing Hermione and their eyes met.

"I do not think you would remain in a situation that is unpleasing to you. Quand même, if there is-"

"No, please, I'm quite alright." Hermione interjected. She averted her eyes to the window, where she could see the Weasleys had given up on the fireworks, and were now content to shoot brightly colored sparks from their wands. Charlie had managed to collect his into the shape of a dragon – a Chinese Fireball, if her memory of the Triwizard Tournament was correct. She looked back at Fleur, who was still patiently watching her.

"Really. It's – things haven't been the same of course. But he didn't grab me hard it was just," Tears came to her at the memory. "Just the wrong spot." Fleur's confusion was evident, so Hermione continued.

"Do you remember, when we came to you at Shell Cottage, there was a mark on my arm? You tried to heal it, but…" Fleur's breath caught audibly, as she recalled the word Mudblood, scarlet and grotesque, marring Hermione's forearm. The younger witch looked down in shame. "Anyway, it's still tender. Likely always will be." Again, she wiped at her eyes.

Fleur allowed her a moment of privacy and looked to the floor. She would have preferred that Hermione engage her feelings and cry, finally let the weight of her trauma off her shoulders, but ever a Gryffindor, she remained stoic. Instead, Fleur reached out her hand, covering Hermione's and causing her to look up.

"Should you ever need a friend, I am always at your service. Though, what use 'Phlegm' could be to you I'm not sure."

Hermione's eyes bulged and her cheeks reddened at the reference to the childish nickname. She and Ginny had been certain Fleur had never overheard any of their teasing. "Oh, Fleur, I-I didn't –"

"No reason to apologize." Fleur smiled wryly. "It is endearing, now that you are both adults. And it is nice to remember happier times." Hermione's flushed cheeks delighted Fleur, who was glad to see her looking something other than perfectly poised for once.

Blooming camaraderie spurred Fleur to speak again. "You English have a saying about how the way one spends the new year, it is the way the rest of the year will be spent?" Hermione nodded, unsure of how despite the blunders that plagued Fleur's English she had managed to retain the phrase.

"Perhaps then we should join the others?" Fleur asked, cocking her head toward the raucous celebrations outside.

Hermione licked her lips and ruminated for a moment. "If it's alright, would you mind staying up here? It's nice just talking… and it's warm inside." If she were completely honest, she would tell Fleur that she was still shaken by everything that had come back to her earlier. She wrapped Ginny's blanket protectively around her waist. The memory of Bellatrix's maniacal laugh coupled with the blinding pain had been a potent enough toxin to put her on bed rest for the night. But Fleur looked positively elated that her company was finally tolerable to someone other than Bill, so Hermione held her tongue. Of course, Fleur was also more than pleased with the tacit implication that her counterpart would enjoy spending the rest of the year in her company.

"Bien sûr! Shall we try these macarons? I hope they are alright, they are my mother's recipe but this was my first attempt."

Fleur inched closer to grab one off Hermione's plate, silvery hair brushing over the younger girl's leg. Hermione was quite sure she'd never actually come into contact with Fleur before tonight, save for moments of healing at Shell Cottage, and she didn't know if it was the effect of the Veela in Fleur or the fact that she'd embarrassed herself so thoroughly earlier, but she felt her heart quicken at the new level of intimacy they'd breached tonight. Hermione had been truly surprised by the depths of Fleur's kindness last spring; she'd been taken aback by the differences between seventeen year-old Beauxbatons champion Fleur and the mature, powerful Fleur that had fought amongst the Order. She was, to Hermione's initial astonishment, a complex human. She wasn't Phlegm. And she wasn't simply fulfilling a duty, as she had been when she played host to the trio. This was a Fleur who was making a distinct effort to show her compassion, her trustworthiness… and something else.

Unusually, Hermione's reasonable mind was drawing a blank trying to figure out the blonde's intentions. Distance from Molly Weasley, perhaps? But Fleur could have just gone outside for that. She'd seemed genuinely worried earlier, protective, even. Hermione banished the thought to the back of her mind as she chewed, instead trying to figure out how to engage Fleur in a conversation that didn't revive awful memories - which unfortunately ruled out the majority of their encounters.

She was spared by the chiming of the large clock downstairs, finally bringing 1998 to its long-awaited close.

"Bonne année." Fleur smiled gently and leaned forward, her prominent cheeks grazing Hermione's once, twice. The younger witch felt a spike of adrenaline and a subsequent burn in her face at their proximity. And how soft Fleur's skin was. And the twenty different shades of blue in Fleur's eyes. And the way the light from the sparks outside glinted off her hair. Hermione mentally slapped herself for falling victim so easily to Fleur's otherworldly appearance. Veela.

"Happy, uh, happy New Year, Fleur." She hadn't meant to make her discomfort so obvious.

"Forgive me, la bise is habit. Something more English, then," She raised her teacup and, after Hermione did the same, clinked them gently together. "A happy new year. It certainly can't be any less happy than the last."

"I hope you're right." Hermione wasn't fully convinced they'd seen the worst of things yet. While she knew she'd never see the same amount of death she had in the past couple of years, the war hadn't exactly left magical England, including her, in the best of mental states.

"Fleur!" A shout up the stairs. Bill, probably. Fleur smiled somewhat apologetically and began to clean up the dishes she'd brought.

As she took Hermione's cup, Fleur looked at her hard and said definitively "If you find things this year to be less than desirable, Shell Cottage, and I, will always welcome you." There's a glint in her eyes that was unmistakably sincerity, and Hermione could only nod in silent gratitude.

"Do you need anything else? Something to help you fall asleep?" Fleur inquired.

Hermione sunk further into the sheets and laid her head on the pillow, turning it towards the door. "If you wouldn't mind just switching off the light on your way out."

"Of course. Sleep well, Hermione." Fleur laid a hand softly on Hermione's own, then did as she was asked, and shut the door behind her, leaving Hermione in darkness.


End file.
